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Real History, and a Radical’s Diary

Documents on the First
IN
her sixty years’ rule she has seen the
feckless politicians turn her kingdom
from a mono-ethnic wellspring of world
civilisation into a drug-crazed,
gun-toting, knife-wielding
‘multi-cultural’
cesspit.

[Previous
Radical’s
Diary]

Wednesday,
July 11, 2012
Key
West, Florida —

“Don’t worry about these things,” I write to Jessica. “Just finished packing and loading the rental car for the four hour drive up the Keys (the islands), to Miami airport. I will leave here in about an hour or two. Really looking forward to evenings chatting with you. I will phone you when I land. I sent
Mummy 200 dollars in the mail but they have been stolen. As usual.”

Thursday,
July 12, 2012
—
London, England

PLANE lands half an hour early at 9:30 pm. We have had a two-hundred-mile an hour Jet Stream tailwind. Kevin arrives in his metallic-blue
Bentley TR. The M4 is still closed because of the weak bridge, so he is not happy and can not hang around.

A friend asks me if I have seen a recently published novel (reviewed in The New York
Times Book Review) called The Mirage, by Matt Ruff. “It is a kind of alternate history/ fantasy in which an Arab super-state is the world’s dominant power and North America is divided into Christian fundamentalist countries at war with each other. It’s not a bad read. And there is one mention in it of David Irving, the
Prime Minister of Britain.

Thought you would be amused,” and he is not wrong.

Friday,
July 13, 2012
London,
England

I DRIVE into Chiswick to the NatWest Bank.
Trouble with coloured staff. One White and one
Black clerk, a fat woman with an Afro haircut like the one sported by Barack Obama while still at University. They are wearing NatWest uniforms of course, but that cannot conceal their native characters. Like the SA Brownshirt, uniform grants permission; it lends authority over the
Whites to her, like a parking-meter attendant, which she now uses.

She is loudly harassing a White customer, whose name does not exactly match the name on the account and has to be punished or at least humiliated. I decide to wait until the White clerk is free, and I allow five more customers to step past me.

Eventually I get my turn, and after I have deposited five hundred pounds on my now defunct credit card, as I am still waiting for a replacement card, he reveals that it will be “some time” before the credit actually reaches the card; meanwhile no doubt the cash floats around inside the banking system, the interest being licked off it by the likes of
Bob Diamond in their bonuses. In any other business but the banking, these practices would be called embezzlement.

“Your card has been cancelled, sir,” he says loud enough for all the line behind me to hear, by way of explanation.

I say, loud enough for his Black colleague to hear, “Yes I had to cancel it because two Black thugs mugged my young daughter and stole all her property in Hackney, and I refuse now to deal with Black staff until they get their community in order.”

A frisson of silent agreement wafts toward me from the lengthening line of customers. A
NatWest poster on the wall proclaims
TIME TO CHANGE YOUR BANK.
I could not agree more — if only there was a non-corrupt British bank worth changing to. —
As I walk out I realize I have forgotten to pay anything into my bank account. Three-quarters of an hour wasted. Hey ho.

href=”https://irvingbooks.com/xcart/product.php?productid=17529&cat=3&page=1&#8243 shape=”rect”/>

Saturday,
July 14, 2012
London,
England

FOUR p.m. I have coffee for a couple of hours with Bente at The Cadogan in Sloane Street. She is as beautiful as ever. . . I cook supper again, a roast chicken, for Hugo and
Jessica.

Sunday,
July 15, 2012
London,
England

MY German lawyer sends me correspondence from the Munich authorities which indicates that back in May the public prosecutor in Lüneburg wanted to proceed against me for having violated
Germany’s Freedom of Movement Act by my June
2010 visit to Hamburg with Jaenelle (to interview historian Fritz Tobias and journalist Gerd Heidemann).
Deutschland/Alice-in-Wonderland: some “Freedom of Movement” !

The Lüneburgers are inquiring about my current address, and Munich has obliged them.

I AM STILL searching for the autographed books, up to twenty boxes of them, which I signed and last saw in Jaenelle’s rental car as she drove off from Washington DC, at three pm on November
18 last year.

“That was very disappointing,” I reply to her
Hoosier friend C., who thought she had found them. “Those books are very scarce and worth around $5,000 or more.

I
appreciate that Jaenelle
Antas
is momentarily happy with her new life and
her wealthy new beau, but she really cannot
play fast and loose with other people’s
property like that. We have long forgiven her
for waltzing off to Australia taking the
keys, passwords, and letters, and making it
impossible for us to sell a single book for
two months over the Christmas period.
. .

She has evidently put the signed
books somewhere and forgotten about them, in
what we males might be forgiven for calling
Another Blonde Moment.

Bruce D. writes me: “Shortly after watching one of your talks on You Tube with the IHR, I happened to pick up a book: Penguin
Island, by Anatole France, that I had bought primarily for the illustrations by
Frank C. Pape. It struck me that this was what you were trying to say.

Perhaps you have read it, but it seems apropos: “The following day I called upon one of them (an historian), an astute old man. ‘I came, sir,’ I said to him,
‘to ask for the advice that a man of your experience can give. I am taking the utmost trouble in composing a history and I reach no result whatever.’

He
answered me, shrugging his shoulders. ‘What
is the good of giving yourself so much
trouble, and why compose a history when all
you need to do is copy the best-known ones in
the usual way? If you have a fresh view or
original idea, if you present men and things
from an unexpected point of view, you will
surprise the reader. And the reader does not
like to be surprised. He never looks in a
history for anything but the stupidities that
he knows already.

If you try to instruct him
you only humiliate him and make him angry. Do
not try to enlighten him; he will only cry
out that you insult his beliefs. Historians
copy from one another. Thus they spare
themselves trouble and avoid the appearance
of presumption. Imitate them and do not be
original. An original historian is the object
of distrust, contempt, and loathing from
everybody.’

As Bruce says, this sums up my mission. I thank him for that wonderful extract. I am looking for another quote from the same author.
His minister of finance visits the emperor to discuss the new war they are planning, and gives him an estimate:

“It will cost 500,000,000 francs, Your
Majesty.”
“But the lives! The cost in human life,
in lives!” sighs the emperor.
“Uh, they’re included in the five
billion, Majesty,” says the minister.

Can you narrow that one down too?

Monday,
July 16,
2012 London,
England

I RECEIVE an imperious message from a Lisa
Pietruszewicz in Florida: “I noticed a luncheon,” she writes, “planned in Melbourne on
[October] 2, 2012 with David Irving.
Where is this luncheon located? I refuse to pay for something without knowing the details.
Please respond.” She identifies herself however as the Executive Director of Brevard Inc., based in Melbourne, but uses the email address
[email protected].

I send her a courteous reply: “Dear Lisa,

thank
you for your inquiry. I do lecture several
times a year in Melbourne and other Florida
locations, without difficulty. These are
private meetings and we reserve the right to
refuse admission. We regret that we are not
prepared to waive that right on this
occasion.

Tuesday,
July 17,
2012 London,
England

A New York writer, Richard Cohen, phones and will come and see me later this month. He sounds very English. He was a publishing director at Hodders, and much else, and is working on a new book for Random
House.

Wednesday,
July 18,
2012 London,
England

I TAKE Jessica with Florence and Sophie to
Gatwick airport. They are off for a week in
Cyprus today. I drop them off there at ten a.m.

My Berlin expert R. likes Chapter 24 of
Himmler, about the 1934 Night of the Long
Knives, and comments: “Excellent, though of course there are a lot of names to swallow.” He adds: “After all, François-Poncet”
— the French ambassador to pre-war Germany —
“lived to tell the story, yet didn’t.”

I reply: “Yes, I wrote him about this in the early 1970s and he denied having conspired with
Röhm. But he would, wouldn’t he? The
Forschungsamt [Hitler’s wiretap agency] was certainly reading F-P’s telegrams in 1937, as they decoded his despatch on the November 1937 Hossbach Conference – it is in Seekriegsleitung files, the original of which telegram the French archives duly supplied to me” – for Hitler’s War.

I SEND materials to the writer Richard
Cohen:

with
the utmost diffidence, in case you wish to
prepare yourself in depth for our meeting on
July 30, I am enclosing the first half of my
as yet unpublished
biography of Heinrich
Himmler,
on which I have been working for fifteen
years. Still subject of course to massive
editing. If you dip into it you will see what
malicious nonsense is the smear that I am a
“Holocaust denier”. I have gut-wrenching
material from the KGB archives, which nobody
else has.

I will send with my next message, also in confidence, some of the first chapters of my eventual memoirs (which are best written when the memory is strong, i.e. now).

Friday,
July 20,
2012 London,
England

DIET is kicking in. Emails: From Berlin, R. now comments on chapter 25: “The serenity of the last paragraph is lovely.”

“Yes, the whole chapter is carefully crafted,” I reply. “Note how we don’t find what becomes of Rudi Brandt until the very last words. I have always felt sorry for him.
Those pages are meant as a kind of Epitaph for the Small Man.”

And R. comments on my sentence, The lines to Vienna were dead — as indeed was
Dollfuss: “– classic Irving.” — Yup.

A good friend in Illinois has contributed four hundred dollars. I thank her:

I
guess the summer doldrums are upon us. I was
worrying, as I have to pay some huge air
tickets this month – back to the USA
(Atlanta), and to Spain to visit my
daughters, and I have to pay the rental truck
as soon as I get to the leasing desk at
Atlanta, two months in advance, and so
on. . .

But my work on Himmler has resumed, and I am attaching Chapter 25 which I just completed yesterday and sent to my circle of literary friends for comments.

ERIC Z. tells me that Jaenelle has unaccountably
“unfriended” him on Facebook, having been mistaken for my Columbia, South Carolina, informant. He was one of our visitors to the sites in Poland last year. Perhaps my Hoosier friends will be the next to vanish as Jae’s hammering fingers flail toward the “smite” button on her keyboard. I hope not. There is really no need for this carnage. If she carries

on decimating her circle of Facebook friends, she will find herself totally friendless.
Perhaps in Australia that kind of thing doesn’t matter.

Saturday,
July 21,
2012 London,
England

ELIOTT B. writes from New South Wales: “I hope this is the correct name for the person responsible for packing and shipping my books to
Australia? I just wanted to say thanks for such excellent service, speedy dispatch and packing the books in such a way that they can’t be damaged in transit. Warm regards from Australia.
Eliott”

I reply: “Thanks for those very kind words,
Eliott, which I know my helpers will enjoy. My online bookstore is now being very efficiently managed by a young lady in Atlanta, and I know she will appreciate your thanks.”

From
Norway comes a query about my 1967 book The
Destruction of PQ 17. He observes that I quote from letters written by then Captain
Louis B Hamilton to his mother in 1942. “As a Norwegian author . . . I am very interested in getting access to possible letters from the spring of 1940, when Captain Hamilton was Flag-Captain to Lord Cork and Orrery
on board HMS Aurora during the Narvik campaign.” He is the author of several naval histories.

I reply:

I
think you will be in luck. The letters were
in the archives at the National Maritime
Museum, Greenwich; write to the Custodian of
Manuscripts at the National Maritime Museum,
whose postal address is Park Row, London SE10
9NF and telephone number +44 20 8858 4422. So
they are more likely to be preserved than if
they were kept by his widow, whom I visited
nearly fifty years ago in Belgravia, London.
Please let me know if I can help you
further.

Mrs D. copies to me a letter from another satisfied customer: “It is nice,” he says, “to do business with actual human beings for a change, instead of some automated system where you are dealing with machinery the whole way through the ordering process. . . I just wanted to reiterate that this has been one of the most pleasant transactions of my entire life and you all are doing a wonderful job. Keep up the excellent work!

I am sure to be a repeat customer and would love to have the opportunity to see
Mr. Irving speak in person at one of his events. Hopefully his upcoming tour brings him up my way.”

I am glad, because Mrs D. is working so hard to make a success of the bookstore that Little Angel tried so hard to wreck.

Sunday,
July 22,
2012 London,
England

AT THREE pm I drove over to the storage unit and after two hours dismantling the contents with the assistance of Dawn’s muscular son I finally find, buried fifteen-feet deep inside, the box with the components of the microfilm printer-reader that I shall need to read those
35mm KGB microfilms for Himmler.

C. emails me from Indianapolis. She is sad that the boxes which she and her husband found are not the missing ones I have been searching for all this year: “If I ever hear of any more of your property that hasn’t been returned to you,” she concludes, “I will surely do the right thing and direct you to it.”

I reply:

Connie,
I know you are straight with me and I am sure
that Jaenelle wants to be straight with me.
But she suffers from being a Dizzy Blonde at
present, and has other things on her mind. I
do what I can to chide her gently and prod
her memory, but …

I really cannot turn my back on new books that are worth thousands of dollars and will cost that much for me to replace. I suspect (and hope) that she unthinkingly unloaded them at
James’s cottage shortly before he found out what was going on with the Australian, and she has not wanted for obvious reasons to go back and get them.

James is Jae’s (now somewhat aggrieved) ex-fiance in Indiana.

A STRANGER inquires about poor Tom
Norman, who worked for me in 1994-95
building our online bookstore, and was murdered around February 20, 1995 in Saturn Lane, Greer,
South Carolina. “Could you provide any details that would help me research this?”

I reply at 7:41 p.m: “In 1995 Tom Norman was shot dead with his own gun in his sleep by a crazed woman he had picked up in a bar like a stray cat and given a roof over her head for a few days. She came back with her boyfriend to steal computer equipment (which I had paid for) to sell and buy drugs. I told you the story, I believe. Nothing to do with me or my views.” I add: “Let me know what you find out. It was very disturbing at the time. The killers got life sentences.”

There are a lot of crazed women around.
Thankfully, not all have guns.

I am still searching for those boxes of autographed books. Our family motto is dum spiro spero,while I breathe I hope. “Dear
James,” I write her ex-fiancé, a forester,

Just
a brief note. Seven months after Jaenelle’s
departure from our bookstore, I am still
trying to clear up the mess she’s left
behind. . . James, please provide a
short answer to the following friendly query:
. . It occurs to me that J. may
have left the boxes of autographed books with
you, for whatever reason, and then forgotten
them or not wanted to get them back. She told
me

on October 17 last year that she could not
at present provide me with the Polish
tour-receipts and financial papers,
explaining:

“They
may still be in one of my suitcases, which is
up on the rafters in the garage. I have asked
James to get it down for me, but he has not
done so yet.”
It
is all a regrettable and unwarranted waste of
our time. With all my best wishes for the
future, [etc.]

Monday,
July 23,
2012 London,
England

SOME dilatory research has developed several phone numbers for Gerwich Bode, Jae’s current amour, and I text to his
Australian phone number at noon-forty with the brevity that such devices demand:

Please
ask Jaenelle what she did with ten to twenty
boxes of books I signed for her in Virginia
Nov 18 worth thousands. She is not answering.
David

The saga continues.

I CONTACT our revisionist friends at the
Institute for Historical Review:

I am delaying the dates of my USA tour by almost exactly a month, but I will make sure that our new Orange County,
California date still falls on a Saturday. The tour now begins late September. It ain’t easy to make such a change. I am also planning to include a little San Diego event for the first time.

Tuesday,
July 24,
2012 London,
England

THE Australian, Gerwich Bode, has not replied, which rather disappoints me; after all, it is a substantial sum of money that is missing in those books

Jessica phones from Cyprus, back at 8:20 pm tomorrow evening, at Gatwick; I say I will be there at nine pm to meet them. Sophie and Tim will be with her. She got badly sunburned on a boat trip yesterday and hurt herself jumping off a cliff. All the usual teenage things to learn.

Wednesday,
July 25,
2012 London,
England

PAUL, an Indian citizen, writes to me, and I can almost hear the lilting voice as I read his words:

I
am an Indian and your premise that the
British Empire could have continued had
Churchill been sober, not drunk, is basically
you saying to me “Hi Paul, you would still
have been our slave”.

That is too blatant to ignore. Ireply: “Yes, but you would be civilised slaves, with railways, hospitals, telephones, and everything else we brought you. Your butter would still be ghee. On the other hand were it not for the
British Raj you would still be practicing
suttee, which some might say was one of your more useful rituals.”

An unexpectedly civil reply comes from
Jaenelle’s ex-fiancé James, a real gentleman in the classical Engish mould. He regrets that he cannot be of much help to me in my search for the missing boxes of autographed books. After he moved from Indianapolis to the cottage with her in July last year, he saw no boxes of books being stored with him: “All such materials were in J.’s office” – meaning her bookstore in Spencer. He adds:

Additionally,
… I assure you that no suitcases were ever
stored on the rafters of that
garage. . . J. retrieved her
possessions that had been in my care some
months ago. I do not know their whereabouts
now . . .

He concludes: “I am truly sorry to hear that you may have some lost or unaccounted for property.”

I thank him:

Thank
you James. That leaves just Rochester as the
only place those boxes might still be. I hate
to bother her parents about them. In fact I
hated to bother you too, but I have been
drawing blanks just everywhere. I even drove
down to Spencer two months ago in case she
had left them stacked in the abandoned
bookstore. I paid her 8000 dollars in
January/February, 6000 of them to her
attorney (!) to mail to her, but I suspect he
kept the lot and did not send it on to her.

A
bit of a butterfly; I just hope she’s happy
with this new flower she has landed on in
Australia!

I HAVE ordered the production of Ich komme wieder (I shall return) a DVD version of a
German-language film which I made professionally in 1993 to reply to Germany, after I was banned from that country “in the interest of the German people.” To meet that nation’s delicate susceptibilities, I shall have to blank three or four words out of the soundtrack, and I instruct the manufacturer:

I
have put in bold type the words that need to
be blurred or bleeped or deleted. They are
about ten minutes from the end. (I attach the
complete transcript which we should print and
include in the case)

[Timer:
1:15:42] – The journalist says: Mr.
Irving why should I sign? I reply, But you have yourself emphasized at the beginning of this interview that you still believe in the
Gas Chamber legend! So it shouldn’t be too difficult for you to give me a signature to testify to this belief! But in the meantime of course …

The
German words to listen for at this point are
Gaskammer-Legende

Thursday,
July 26,
2012 London,
England

A MOST interesting day begins, and it looks like the end of a forty-year search is in sight (and I am not referring to What Jaenelle Did
With My Books). It begins when Robert
Mountford sends me a letter which Himmler wrote to his mother in 1932 (below); it is displayed on an Internet site. I comment that
I have not seen this one before.

“Yes its true,” he replies. “More and more appear to be surfacing.” And then he adds the bombshell: “I also found this fascinating pic that connects to your picture in Hitlers
War — the one of the ceremonial burning of his tunic and trousers worn on 20th July, previously given to Eva Braun. Posing with it is Counter Intelligence Corps man Peter
B—.”

It is an unusual photo, not unlike the two I have in Hitler’s War, but this time identifying the US soldier holding up the damaged trousers Hitler was wearing on July 20,
1944, which Hitler afterwards sent to Eva as a souvenir.

I press Mountford for the source, and this enables me to identify the soldier and, after an hour’s work, to track down his address in
Arizona — he is still alive in Phoenix, aged
89. Phoenix is on my speaking route in a month’s time.
Need I say more.

I shall write to him first, unusually.
He was almost certainly in the CIC unit run by
Robert A Gutierrez in Germany in
1945, and the items describing this GI’s role say that he got Eva’s diary and the rest.
Wow. Is a forty-year hunt finally coming to an end?

LUNCH with the Dowager Lady M. at the Sloane
Club in Chelsea. She shows us a four-page letter from a Dr Michael D Evans of the
Jerusalem Prayer Team. She asks what she should reply to this importunate gentleman. It begins,
“Israel is facing annihilation,” and I suggest that she reply: “That seems at first such good news, until I read on, and see that you are collecting money from us Christians for the support of Israel.”

The letter is of course a printed appeal (“Dear friend”) it begins, as I point out. His
Wikipedia entry claims he has had a personal encounter with Jesus Christ, which puts him one-up on me. He once anointed Benjamin
Netanyahu with oil, which would appear to have turned that even-holier-than-thou person into something of a fire hazard, as well as being the world’s greatest threat to world peace, as the majority of public opinion believes.

Lady M. is a riot of good fun. She has decided to stay on in her 13,000-acre estate with its vast hundred-room mansion, instead of turning it over to her son and very comely daughter-in-law, one of the Mond family (ICI) who, one would suspect, has riches enough already.

As we wait for luncheon, the Olympic Torch is unexpectedly borne past, carried this time by a
White lady, after a rather unbecoming and noisy, blaring advertising vanguard of advertising buses featuring Coca-Cola, Samsung, and Lloyds
Bank.

Hundreds of bicyclists follow at the rear of the jogging police “bubble” protecting the
Torch.

It reminds me of Adolf Hitler‘s irritation after the proud military parade marking his entry into Austria, as the Viennese proletariat fell in behind the marching bands and trotted into the street and shambled along behind them.
As Field Marshal Wilhelm Keitel recalled in his death-cell Nuremberg memoirs, with a wave of his hand Hitler ordered this unsightly mob cut off.

The Olympic Torch seems now to have garnered the same symbolic mysticism as the Nazi
Blutfahne of 1923 which was trooped through the Nazi ranks in the party rallies.

Friday,
July 27,
2012 London,
England

WEIGHT is up. Lunch with Lady M yesterday must be to blame.

I write to Peter Bollinger in
Phoenix:

I
am a British historian, and I have been
conducting for nearly forty years something
of a search for the items which Hitler
ordered destroyed in April 1945, and which
you found. In fact, back in 1973 I flew from
here to Albuquerque to visit Robert
A
Gutierrez
(who was I guess your commander in 307th
CIC?), and I dined with him there again
fifteen years later.

I will be lecturing in the USA in October and I shall be in Phoenix on October 17. Can I come and have a chat with you? I am sure you have vivid memories of your historic search. In my famous biography of Hitler, published by
The Viking Press, I have two photos showing the (alleged) destruction of Hitler’s uniform. I will be proud to give you a copy. . .

Meanwhile, my best wishes for your good health.

IN THE morning Hugo and I watch on television the ceremonial procession of the Olympic Torch down the Thames to the Pool of London, where it transfers to a pontoon moored by HMS
Belfast (aboard which ancient cruiser we formally launched Churchill’s War, vol. i: “Struggle for Power” in 1983). Quite a stirring sight, the Royal Barge being rowed like some Viking longboat by two dozen strong men and women (one of them being the Obligatory Black).

The boat is called the Gloriana, which seems a rather incongruous Essex-girl kind of name; it could have been worse, she might have been launched as the Tracey or Sharon, to pay proper obeisance to political correctness. But
Hugo educates me: Queen Elizabeth I was also known as “Gloriana.” Not often he knows more than I.

As the barge makes fast alongside the pontoon, I notice one of the women rowers pulling forth her inevitable Blackberry and texting to somebody for several minutes. Women texting: You see it here, you see it there, you see that smartphone everywhere. More fun than sex, and less messy. On buses and planes and in motor cars; they used to do their lip gloss and eyebrows while driving, now they text. Women texting: It’s the other ubiquitous plague, like
American Obesity.

My
German lawyer emails me. The Potsam court — a
woman judge — has refused to grant us an injunction ordering the film company to show their blockbuster Rommel film script to us, citing our “delay” in applying for the injunction.

Durch
sein Abwarten hinsichtlich der Einleitung
gerichtlicher Eilmaßnahmen hat der
Antragsteller eine fehlende
Eilbedürftigkeit ausreichend deutlich
gemacht?

There is an order for costs made against me.
Grrr. I tell my lawyer:

Ärgerlich,
ich hatte gedacht, wir hätten das
ausreichend durch das abwartende Benehmen und
ausweichende Verhalten der Gegnerin
erklärt. Ich lasse mich nunmehr von
Ihnen, werter Herr K, beraten. Was bleibt uns
sonst als Gegenmaßnahme?

Looks like the beginning of the end of that avenue. Seems that in Germany people are free to print my books without payment, and rob their content for television movies at will.

But the attorney answers at once that we should appeal to a higher court, and I tell him to go for it:

Dann
reichen wir die Beschwerde bitter rechtzeitig
dazu ein, lieber Herr K. Es kommt dann
hoffentlich vor einem anderen Richter zur
Entscheidung! David Irving.

FROM NINE pm I watch with
Hugo the Olympics opening ceremony, devised by
Danny Boyle, who is said to be a leftwing film director. Most of the tumbling turmoil that follows goes right over our heads, and no doubt over the heads of the five billion viewers around the world too. The media fare better, having been provided with a handout which tells them what is happening, and who is who.

It is very chaotic and spectacular, even inspired in parts, but it fails to chill me except for a few touches reminiscent of
Richard Wagner (or even Albert Speer
and Benno von Arent) — the steelworkers forging a fifth Olympic ring of
Golden fire to complete the other four, the searchlights over the stadium, the torchlight parade, the blonde maidens carrying the copper
“kettles” and the country-names.

The British contingent’s uniforms are designed by Stella
McCartney, shapeless sacks of white with
Gold patches under the armpits. The world’s press unanimously votes them the worst of all two hundred countries. Thus we pay the price for name-dropping political correctness.

There is a less inspired skit involving HM The Queen and the film actor who plays James Bond, with
Her Majesty parachuting into the stadium from a helicopter — but it seems to have gone wrong.
While we see the dummy Queen plummeting out of the helicopter above the stadium, she does not float down into the actual arena.

Nobody comments on this; none of the first editions of tomorrow’s newspapers mentions it —
perhaps, like the unfortunate Crawfie incident in the 1960s, they have based their descriptions of the ceremony entirely on the press handout.
The journaille, they never change.

Anyway, the monarch herself duly enters the
Royal box, and sits looking visibly po-faced throughout the ceremony, while her consort appears to doze at her side. I think she must privately view this demeaning skit as the lowest point of her reign, coming so soon after the
Jubilee celebrations.

IN her sixty years’ rule she has seen the feckless politicians turn her kingdom from a mono-ethnic wellspring of world civilisation into a drug-crazed, gun-toting, knife-wielding
“multi-cultural” cesspit. The British Empire imploded. The BBC television cameras hover lovingly on every Black immigrant face that has been shoe-horned, heedless of chronology, into the scenes that Boyle has devised — including the top-hatted 19th Century capitalist factory-owners, and even the Suffragettes.

Black children dance around 19th Century English
Maypoles. Boxer, George Orwell‘s heroic carthorse in Animal Farm, would be scratching his forelock: didn’t remember them, somehow. On the far side of the arena, meanwhile, the Empire Windrush berths to orchestrated cheers, bringing its first toxic cargo of Caribbean doom.

[What a come-down for the good
ole Windrush. Launched in Hamburg in
1930 as the Monte Rosa, she became one
of Hitler’s Kraft durch Freude fleet of
cruise-liners for German workers, served as a
fleet auxiliary to the Tirpitz battle
group in the 1940s, then heroically evacuated
refugees from East Prussia before the Soviet
onslaught in 1945.]

After the first hour, the constant and inappropriate interpolation of Black faces in this London Olympics ceremony becomes offensive, and probably as much so to them as to us, the
Whites. There is brief relief when the outside-broadcast cameras go on to other celebrations in Northern Ireland, Wales, and
Scotland, where there is not a single Black face for the BBC cameras to linger joyously upon.

No doubt they will be digitally inserted later, just as Black faces, looking remarkably like Robertson’s Marmelade golliwogs, were digitally superimposed on some of Harry Potter’s cheering fellow-pupils in the final scene of the first Potter movie.

M. from Vancouver BC comments on Sunday, July 29,
2012 :

I HAVE just finished reading your Radical’s Diary regarding the televised opening ceremony for the Olympic
Games. “I could not agree with you more. I too watched this event and could scarcely believe my eyes as black men and women in 19th Century costume were presented as the creators of the
Industrial Revolution. From that point on, the opening ceremony looked like some Afro-Caribbean festival from Notting Hill.

Most sickening of all was the presentation of “the modern English family” with a White mother, a Black father and several mulatto children. It was just disgusting to watch. To see the White race in general and
English people in particular so ready to flush their own culture down the toilet in favour of a
Black African one was just too much for me. I guess that old adage about nations rotting from within has certainly come true for
Britain.

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Source Information
Original Publication: 2012-07-28
Digital Archive: Focal Point Publications
Accessed: June 3, 2026